Italian Time Travel 02 - Time Enough for Love

by Morgan O'Neill

  She lowered her chin, averting her gaze, and discreetly disengaged herself from his grip. She curtsied. “You are from the north. Allemagne, non?”

  “Enchanté. Oui, Saxony,” he said, finally finding his voice.

  “Ah, you are here for the grand event.”

  “Oui, I am Otto of Germany, invited guest, newly arrived for the marriage of King Lothaire and Princess Adelaide of Burgundy.”

  “Otto… I see, I mean, I have heard your name, Sire. It is said you are a mighty warrior, valiant and just, a fair and good leader to your people. The Pope sings your praises.”

  He saw a hint of dimples when her gaze briefly flickered toward his. Did she tease with such glowing words?

  Otto cleared his throat, uncertain and beguiled. “Are you of Princess Adelaide’s suite? Surely you will also be attending the nuptials tomorrow?”

  She looked directly at him then, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, the barest of frowns creasing her brow. “Oui, you shall see me there.”

  “Ah, that is excellent news. I––”

  “Sire,” she interrupted, stopping him with her raised hand. She hesitated before gesturing toward the statue of St. Monica. “I… I came only to say I am sorry if I disrupted your prayers. I thought the church empty, and would have made less noise, had I been aware of your presence.”

  His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he shrugged to cover his discomfort. “You didn’t bother me, my lady. St. Monica was my wife’s patron saint. Each time Editha bore me a child, she would pray to St. Monica for a safe delivery and wisdom in rearing them. I was saying a prayer for Editha’s soul.”

  “Her soul? Your wife has passed away? I’d not heard. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “News travels but slowly over the Alps. She is a year gone already, and the pain has eased into gentle memory.”

  Seeming anxious, the girl nodded, then looked about, possibly searching for something more to say, as was he. He still wanted to bury himself in her hair, wrap his arms around her shoulders, protect her, taste her lips… so close.

  He gestured toward the door. “May I escort you back to the palace?”

  “Oui… I, er, non,” she stammered, her voice so soft he leaned in. “My escort awaits me outside. Please.” She looked up at him again, her lips slightly parted, her eyes still sparkling, but this time brimming with the tears he’d only suspected earlier.

  “Why do you weep, petite?”

  Her gaze moved to his lips, and she swayed toward him.

  “What is your name?” he whispered, wanting to kiss her, so near he could feel her breath against his skin. When she didn’t back away, he moved to brush his lips against hers.

  Abruptly, she turned her face aside, then shook her head, eyes wide. “Mon Dieu, non! I forget myself.”

  She took another step back, but he caught her arm. “Don’t go! Forgive me, my lady, I… I meant no harm. Please, do not think badly of me.”

  “I must go,” she said, her voice strained. Wrenching her arm free, she hurried away without another glance.

  “Your name?” Otto called after her. “What is your name? I would that we should be formally introduced.”

  But she said nothing as she hurried to the doors, yanked them open, and stepped into the light, leaving Otto to berate himself for his rude and forward behavior.

  The next day, the wedding. Lord Almighty. Otto’s thoughts veered as he remembered his heartache, for it was then he had learned the girl’s true identity. Princess Adelaide, his beautiful petite, was the bride! Desolate, he barely recalled the taking of vows or the nuptial Mass, such was his pain, his shock so all-encompassing as to blind him as she became Lothaire’s property, his queen, his wife.

  Thoughts returning to the present, Otto tossed back the rest of his wine. But things had changed. Adelaide was free, as was he, having found all others wanting in her stead.

  He bowed his head. Please, God, what has happened to ma petite? I pray I am not too late.

  He thought of the margrave of Ivrea and felt his grip tighten on his cup. “You, Berengar,” he vowed, visualizing his enemy, “you shall be undone.”

  *

  Adelaide closed her eyes against the darkness of her cell, thinking, remembering. Soon, she was wandering in that peculiar state of half-dreaming, lost between wakefulness and deepest slumber.

  After a time, she drifted back to the day before her wedding to Lothaire. She was young, a maiden, barely sixteen. She had just met the man of her dreams, but – Lord in heaven – he was not her future husband.

  Adelaide saw herself hurrying down the stairs of the Church of the Golden Ceiling. She brusquely waved aside her ladies-in-waiting. Her bodyguards fell in step behind her, keeping themselves at a cautious distance.

  She sheltered her eyes from the glaring sun with one hand, her other clenched in a fist at her side. Otto. King Otto of Germany. Though until now she’d never been interested in any man, this one had unsettled her heart in an instant. How dare he! How could that be? His wavy, golden hair and blue eyes were seared into her mind.

  Her heart was cruel to leap so, come alive, and betray her on the very eve of her nuptials. She swiped angrily at her tears and then stomped back through the crowded streets to the palace.

  Dismissing her ladies, Adelaide entered her bedchamber and slammed the door. Not once in her life had she thought about kissing a man, not until she nearly threw herself at this one. Standing a full head taller than she, his chest twice as broad, she was drawn to him in a way she had not imagined possible.

  “Ahhh!” She seized a comb and flung it blindly across the room. Otto!

  Her mind veered when the comb hit the amber-colored silk gown she would wear for the wedding. Lothaire, her fiancé. The two men were kings and of an age – in their thirties – but Otto was vital and alive, while Lothaire seemed placid, without presence. Lothaire’s height was hardly greater than her own, his belly soft and bulging, his eyes and receding hair a dull brown. For the second time in her life, she thought of kissing a man, of kissing Lothaire, as she knew she would soon have to do. A shudder coursed through her body.

  They had been promised to one another by contract and treaty fourteen years before, when she was a toddler. A few years ago, her mother had married Lothaire’s father, King Hugh, after Adelaide’s father had passed away. Her mother claimed she did it for Adelaide’s sake, to further cement the union of the two houses. Now Hugh was dead, her mother a widow once more, and Adelaide’s time had arrived. She would belong to Lothaire by noon tomorrow. She would be his wife and Queen of Northern Italy. He would be able to kiss her, touch her, and she would have to allow his touch, mayhap be expected to respond in kind.

  Otto.

  She ground the heels of her hands against her eyes. She had to forget his face, his name, the feel of his powerful hands, the curve and promise of his lips.

  “Ahhh!” she cried out.

  Tears coursed down Adelaide’s cheeks as she threw her box of ribbons across the room. Why had Otto come here? Why?

  *

  A day later, the formal ceremony over, Adelaide stood with her new husband at the top of the church steps, the dazzling sunlight painful after the gloom of the interior.

  The cobbled square before them was crowded with people waving, cheering, and calling blessings upon them. The air held the scents of the costly spices being burned throughout the city for the wedding festivities, and Adelaide breathed deeply, smelling a delicious mingling of cloves and cinnamon. The people tossed blossoms of every color and kind to anoint the first path Lothaire and Adelaide would walk together as man and wife. A pair of matching white horses awaited them at the end of the path, garlanded with ribbons and flowers, a gift from Lothaire to her, so beautiful.

  Guards with pikes made a good display of holding the crowds back, but this was just a formality. Everyone was polite, relaxed, and eager to see their king wed at last.

  Adelaide let her gaze flicker over the invited guests, se
arching their faces as they issued from the church.

  When Lothaire raised his hand and smiled, accepting the good wishes of his people, Adelaide mimicked his gesture. She was their queen now and knew she must appear happy, regal, wise, and confident – attributes a subject would hope to see in their monarch’s bride.

  Although she didn’t feel any of those things, Adelaide knew where her duty lay, and she would not disappoint the people – her people now.

  Duty. Ever her mother’s favorite word. How many times had Adelaide heard it since childhood? Since her father’s death? Since that very morning?

  “We each have a duty now, child. Your father drew up this treaty many years ago, and we are duty-bound to see it through. Besides, you shall be queen consort to Lothaire. Is that duty not worth any price? Follow my sage leadership without qualms, daughter. Did I not follow duty in giving myself to King Hugh, even so soon after your father’s passing? Despite my grief, I felt duty-bound to ensure the bonds of treaty between Burgundy and Italy remained unbreakable, by our uniting with both father and son.”

  Duty, duty, duty. Looking out at the crowd, Adelaide sighed behind her smile and waved again. Her mother stood beside her, also waving.

  “Queen Adelaide!” a high-pitched voice cried. A little girl pushed through the crowd, rushing past the armed guards, and into the open. “My lady, you are very pretty. Here, I brought you flowers. Some are blue, like your eyes.”

  The child curtsied, then handed Adelaide a fist full of wild blooms.

  Smiling, Adelaide made a show of inspecting them, then held them to her nose. The scent was sweet, lovely. “Thank you very much.”

  The girl beamed with pleasure and then, with another curtsey, she disappeared into the crowd.

  The bishop came out of the church at that moment. When he raised his arms, the throng grew quiet. “This morning, Princess Adelaide of Burgundy and King Lothaire of Italy were united before God. May their union be blessed, fruitful, long lasting, and abounding in wisdom. People of Italy, behold your king and his new bride.”

  Cheers and applause filled the air. Adelaide smiled politely at her husband, remembering her first sight of him on the day of her arrival in Italy some five years ago. The meeting had been formal, their words stilted and courteous. Her initial impression of him? As bland as milk toast.

  She had been immediately enrolled in Pavia’s famed Palatina School and rarely saw Lothaire, rarely thought of him, so busy was she with her studies. And her husband was as much a stranger to her now, as on that first day.

  “Come, my dear.” Lothaire smiled back at her. Adelaide tried to ignore his stained teeth, some missing along the side. Not so unusual in a man of his age, but nothing to relish, either.

  Unlike King Otto, who had beautiful teeth. When he smiled at her, she felt she had died and gone to heaven.

  Once more, Adelaide allowed her eyes to roam over the faces of those who had attended the ceremony. Otto. Where was he? Her gaze lingered briefly on each tall man, every blond, but there were no blue eyes to draw her in, overwhelm her with desire, heartache.

  Otto, where are you?

  Lothaire took her hand, and they descended the steps to mount their waiting horses. Again, the crowd roared its approval as the new couple nudged their steeds forward, then made their way to the palace for the feasting banquet.

  *

  In the receiving line, Adelaide forced herself to greet and thank people visiting from far-off lands: Normandy, Britannia, Byzantium, the Kingdom of Asturias, and Saxony. Even the Pope had sent an official representative. Her studies had served her well, for she was able to converse with most of the guests in their own languages, or in Latin. Finally, the line thinned, but she remained by her husband’s side, quiet, projecting an outer calm, her insides churning in turmoil.

  Where was Otto?

  She looked around, seeking him, feeling increasingly desperate because of his absence. She wanted to speak with him in German. Lothaire didn’t understand the language, and she yearned to tell Otto how she felt. No, that is madness. But… if only he would show himself, if only…

  “Queen Adelaide.”

  Unused to the title, she didn’t respond until she felt a touch on her arm. Agnes. Her dearest friend and confidante since girlhood, Agnes stood with a golden cup, her green eyes dancing, mischievous.

  “Your tisane, just as I promised,” she giggled. “At least three hours before––”

  “Hush!” Adelaide whispered, blushing.

  “The drink is well chilled. It will help you with your heat, er, the heat of the day.”

  “Agnes!” Adelaide tried to sound stern, angry. How could Agnes say such things with so many close by?

  Her friend had fallen in love at fourteen with the lesser son of a noble, back home in Burgundy. The match was initially forbidden because he had no wealth to bring to the union, but when she found herself bearing his child, the marriage was done quietly and quickly. Since then, she’d borne him a second son and was only too happy to advise on the surest and most pleasant ways for this to come about.

  Adelaide frowned. Until now, though, until she had seen Otto’s astonishing blue eyes, Agnes’s information had been factual, not literal. Not personal. Now, it was all too personal.

  Beside her, Lothaire laughed at something whispered in his ear, then scratched absently at his crotch. With a shudder, Adelaide raised the glass and emptied it in one, long, determined pull, then handed it back to Agnes without a word.

  “Chère Madame.”

  The deep voice resonated to her very core, and she turned slowly to look at the man she loved. Otto.

  “Monsieur. Je… we missed you at the ceremony,” she said. His eyes flickered toward Lothaire, then returned to hers.

  Quietly, he spoke in German, “Gnädiger Königin… Gracious Queen, I was there, but I stood apart. Please, forgive me. My heart was not in it.”

  Trembling, Adelaide lowered her gaze. “Nor was mine,” she dared to whisper in his tongue.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath and looked up to see his anguish. Lothaire laughed at something again, and Otto cleared his throat, giving her a short bow.

  “Madame, I will be departing for Saxony before nightfall. I have come to bid you farewell.”

  Instinctively, Adelaide reached out and grasped Otto’s arm. “Non, my lord! You must not go so soon. Stay the night – I mean, the roads are crowded with brigands after dark. I would not see you harmed.”

  Suddenly, she realized her husband had turned and was staring at her – at her hand! She quickly released her grip and forced herself to smile. “My lord husband, this is King Otto. He tells me he has plans to leave this evening. That would be dangerous! Please, persuade him to stay for the feast, the dancing, the night. Persuade him to stay at least until the morn.”

  “I know King Otto already. We are old friends.” The two men bowed crisply, then shook hands. “And my wife is correct. Your subjects would see you return safely. Stay the night and break your fast with us. We may not rise at dawn,” those standing beside him chuckled knowingly, “but you must await us, nonetheless, that we may be better able to send you forth with quiet hearts.”

  The muscles along Otto’s jaw rippled with tension; the faint smile playing across his lips was formal and without warmth. “As you wish, King Lothaire.” He bowed again, then pivoted on his heel and left.

  As soon as Lothaire resumed his conversations, Agnes was at Adelaide’s ear. “Who was that?” she gushed. “He is a fine-looking man… so, so large!”

  Adelaide would have blushed at any other time, but now she simply felt numb. “He is the one for whom I wish the drink was meant.”

  Agnes stood rooted, mouth open. “You never told me of him! When did you meet? Ah, that is why you wept in the night!”

  Adelaide glanced furtively at Lothaire. “That is one half of the reason.”

  The friends looked at each other for a long moment, then Agnes took Adelaide’s hands and held them, pa
lms up. “As I have told you before…”

  Adelaide tried to pull away. “I do not believe in palmistry.”

  “No, please, my friend, listen to me. On the one hand you have duty, on the other, hope. Be honest before God when you say your devotions tonight, and mayhap one day He shall see that the two,” she closed the hands together, as though in prayer, “duty and hope, will become joined.”

  A tear escaped and Adelaide quickly swept it away. “Do not make me cry.”

  “Keep your eyes closed when all else is open, and think of the king…” She leaned in. “The blond king! You will be lifted to the stars, but be careful whose name you shout when it comes to that!”

  “Agnes!” Appalled, Adelaide realized people were beginning to stare.

  Lothaire looked up, a study of inquisitiveness, but Agnes simply grinned and winked at him, before waltzing away with the golden cup.

  *

  Alone in the heavily draped bed, Adelaide awaited Lothaire. In the darkened space, she could clearly see Otto’s face, his eyes, his mouth. She could feel the touch of his hand, and the taste and touch of his lips, although these last were only in her imagination.

  The voices and laughter in the hall grew louder as the door opened, and she heard a few bawdy jokes, along with words of encouragement and inspiration.

  She recalled their dancing, Lothaire’s soft, gentle, almost limp hand holding hers. So unlike Otto’s rough, firm grasp. Lothaire held her gaze, silent throughout the dance, a small, tentative smile on his lips, and her heart ached, thinking of the powerful German king.

  The chamber door slammed shut against the ribald laughter. The sound of steps, then Lothaire pulled the curtain aside.

  “Wife, let not the vulgar intrude,” he said, smiling.

  Adelaide was surprised to see he looked calm, relaxed, even kind.

  “My hope is that you will fear for nothing this night, my dear. I promise to treat you gently. I am very much aware of the difference in ages, and, er, experience. You are a lady, and royal in your own right, and I would never denigrate or debase my wife.”